


Paterson ruins your wedding

by in_chains_and_flesh_and_leather



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:35:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27435154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_chains_and_flesh_and_leather/pseuds/in_chains_and_flesh_and_leather
Summary: You cross paths again with your old crush, Paterson.
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson) & You, Paterson (Paterson)/Original Female Character(s), Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You, emotional affair - Relationship, hardcore pining - Relationship
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	1. There’ll never be anyone like you.  How embarrassing.

**_There’ll never be anyone like you._ **

**_How embarrassing._ **

**_*_ **

Doing an exhibition wasn’t that hard, you kept telling everyone. You just cough up some cash to rent a space and hang your shit around. It’s getting people to want to come see it.

You knew you wouldn’t have the hardest time getting people to show at Paterson. It was your hometown and curiosity would win out.

You were right in expecting a bunch of people from your neighborhood and high school to show up, be it to sneer at your work and give you backhanded compliments or the minority that actually enjoyed doing something on a rainy afternoon and was happy to see you do relatively well.

Your mom would make sure all her friends and whoever _they_ could harangue would show up, so the small space may well be packed.

Thankfully, people came in waves. The old fogies were the first to stop by and pinch your cheeks and call your work pretty and nice. Later, it was the bitches and sweeties from school and band and movie and chess club. The day was winding down, so you were left with your two old friends, having a quiet drink from the flask in your purse, letting the polite smiles dissolve from your face and the fatigue of social interaction set in.

Al older man was inspecting your work in a rather funny way, like he was appraising it in a pawn shop almost, occasionally sneaking a glance your way. You were about to walk over and shake his hand when he walked in.

Fucking Paterson.

He left his dog outside and walked in slowly and awkwardly, almost like he was intruding. He seemed to know the man you were about to talk to and they started speaking in a low murmur.

“Is that Paterson?” – your friend Nina asked, as if she didn’t live here and know perfectly well it was. If anyone might have forgotten how he looked, it could have been you. But he was unmistakable.

“He drives a bus.” – Max supplied, finishing his drink. – “Married _such_ a hot chick. _Jesus_ H. Christ.”

“Yeah?” – you asked, stomach twisting in jealousy. How ridiculous. Weren’t you above that? Why would you be jealous of a woman you’d never met who’s married to a man you’ve never dated? Are you such an insufferable cocktail of insecurity and narcissism that every man has to be attracted to you or you would get jealous of the women he _was_ attracted to?

“I mean, I guess you can get a super hot chick if she’s foreign.” – Max continued.

“Is that right?” – you forced a smirk as you sank deeper into your thoughts, everyone sounding far away.

“Yeah, I don’t know what she is, but she’s not American.” – he added.

“I’d assume she’s Homo sapiens.” – you retorted, reminding your friend to filter his words better.

“Obviously. Shut up, I’m just catching you up. Sorry if your New York friends are so much more PC now.” – he rolled his eyes.

“They’re far less PC than you behind closed doors.” – you comforted. – “Might be the envy.”

“So then why are you complaining?”

“I’m trying to protect you – he might deck you if he hears you talk about his scintillatingly hot wife.” – you warned, stomach dropping again.

The man who was looking at you before seemed to move in your direction, so you used what was left of your energy to put on your best hostess smile and walked over, extending a hand to greet him and give him your name when he introduced himself as Doc.

“You’re from Paterson, right?” - he asked.

“Yes, that’s right.” – you answered, giving him your sweet girl next door who grew up in your neighborhood and _never_ did coke in NY and was most definitely _not_ fingered in a cab – old guys loved that smile.

“Can I get your autograph?” – he asked, extending one of your fliers to you.

“Oh.” – you were taken aback. People didn’t usually ask for that. – “Er, sure, let me just… see if I have a pen around…”

“I have one.” – Paterson leaned in, having expertly listened in on your exchange without making you aware of it.

“Oh, good. Thanks.” – you squeaked in a high pitch, only looking at his face for a split second and then at the pen he was producing from his pocket.

You took it, with surgical precision, making sure not to brush up against his fingers at all. Feeling the flesh, the warmth, it would make this too real and god knows how long it would take to put him out of your mind this time. The pen was cold, thankfully, not his body temperature, and you welcomed it, something cold and hard, unpleasant to touch, to occupy your attention.

“This is going on my wall. See how I’m being proactive?” – Doc informed you, and Paterson, as you handed him the autographed flier back. – “See, I have a wall of Paterson luminaries on my wall at the bar. You might one day be the most famous person to come from Paterson, you know.” – he pointed his index finger at you in emphasis as he regarded your penmanship. – “Pretty handwriting, look at this, Paterson.”

Paterson leaned over you and you had a look, agreeing. – “Pretty.”

Your stupid heart fluttered in your chest and you could have slapped yourself in the face for that reaction.

“Are you going out anywhere after this?” – Doc asked.

“Not really, no.” – you shrugged. Maybe you should have said you had plans, make yourself sound cooler. But your ‘cool, out of state’ friends you could have flashed were out in the city, the small Paterson exhibition really not being too important to them. They were at all the majors ones anyway and you let them off the hook.

“Well, how about you come to my bar – see me hang up your autograph and have yourself a drink?” – Doc suggested.

That sounded like it at least had the potential of being more fun than sitting on your parents’ couch and listening to old lady Paterson gossip.

“You know you’re the first person today to suggest something fun - my friend’s kid is sick and my other friend has a date, so I’ve been doubly stood up. And it’s first come, first served with these things. Just give me the address, I’ll be there.”- you told Doc and you used Paterson’s pen to write the address down on another flier.

Doc thanked you and said he was looking forward to seeing you.

Paterson put his pen back in his pocket, thinking he should say something. He has compliments and observations in his head, but words were so hard. He had questions for you, about your life after high school, but you made no indication that you remembered him, so he didn’t want to seem… eager… pathetic… dumb? - “I…” - he started in a low voice, already trailing off, a knife stabbing you in the chest.

You wished he wouldn’t say anything, just go, go, go. But you also wanted him to be impressed, to be moved.

“…like your work.” – he finished earnestly, saying it like it was a secret.

“Thank you.” – you looked at him in the eyes, bracing yourself for another stomach drop. He had always seemed like a transplant from some other world, a tree planted in some foreign soil that didn’t care for the world crawling or buzzing around him, always full of his own secret thoughts and life. In the few instances when you had looked at each other in the past, you got a sense of that, a fascination for it and a stubborn, nagging desire to hear about it, own it, be given it.

He said goodbye to your friends silently, over your shoulder, using those enchanting eyes and headed out.

*


	2. what war I enter and for what a prize!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catching up with Paterson.

*

Paterson returned home, showered and changed. Sat on his usual spot on the couch. Laura played a song on her guitar, decked out in layers and accessories, putting on a show like a kid who snuck into her mom’s wardrobe and put on everything.

When he was done, or in the intermission, Paterson sat quietly, thoughts elsewhere.

“I think I’m going to go out.” – he announced softly.

“There’s no need, you already took Marvin out for his walk.” – Laura looked up from her strings that she was trying to tune.

“I know. I want to go out for a bit.” – Paterson continued, though he would normally be easily deterred and stay behind.

“Okay, have a nice time.” – Laure agreed easily, attention back on her guitar.

*

When he walked into the bar, you were already there, a beer in front of you, napkin under it wet from condensation. You were leaning on your hand, listening to Doc tell you about his wall and Paterson could tell you were smiling and looking more at Doc with benevolent affection for his enthusiasm and passion than you were the clippings and pictures. Only when he turned to you or leaned over the counter would your eyes dart to the wall and you would nod.

“Oh, Paterson, good that you’re here. Where should I put this?” – Doc asked, motioning Paterson to sit next to you.

“Oh, uh… Over by Allen Ginsberg, I think.” – he suggested in his measured way. He fiddled with his jacket for longer than necessary, the zipper was working fine. He just needed to muster up the courage to sit that close and talk to you. After the pause, he looked at Doc holding the piece of paper in the air, moving it slightly up, then down, a little to the left, then to the right. – “I though you might like that? Being next to Ginsberg?” – he asked, eyes still looking ahead.

“Actually, excellent guess.” – you responded, feeling blood rush to your head and your vocal chords vibrate nervously. – “He was my senior quote, which is silly and a bit cringy, I suppose.”

“ _What war I enter and for what a prize_.” – he quoted easily and your breath caught in your chest. There was no comparing it to anything – maybe a stag walking up to you on hind legs and reciting your social security number. It was just mind-bending. He could see from your face you were essentially horrified and he chuckled, feeling embarrassed. – “The summer after high school, a broke a rib and had to take it easy for a while. And one day, all I could reach from my shelf was the yearbook, so I went through it. And I bought his collected poems the next week.” – he explained, getting nervous and skipping over how he thought about the quote all day and laid in his bed thinking of what prompted you to choose it and how he wondered if Ginsberg was your favorite poet, if you liked that style, if you were harsh and blunt and passionate like the poem the quote was taken from. How could he possibly ever tell you that?

“It’s amazing that you can remember that at all. You didn’t have a quote, did you?” – you asked, debating if you should play it cool or just admit you remember him, all too well, and catch up as grownups.

“So you do remember me!” – he proclaimed, a smile brightening his face.

“Er, yyyeah.” – you drawled, busy looking at the lines that appeared on his face as he smiled and how his whole expression softened as he laughed.

“It’s just that, at the gallery… I thought… Nevermind.” – he stopped himself, words failing him, as usual. – “It’s good to see you.” – he said earnestly, tilting his body towards you and extending a hand.

You gritted your teeth, a smile set on your lips, as you took his hand. The fact that you were more nervous to feel the grip of his hand around yours than to climb into a sex swing was ridiculous and you cursed at yourself for still being so weak around someone who never spared a thought for you.

“So you’re a fully fledged artist now.” – he noted, shaking your hand absent-mindedly up and down, looking into your eyes and trying to read whatever it was that was dancing across your face. He never had you this close to him. Maybe a few times as you passed each other in hallways and doorways or climbed into the bus to go home. But not on purpose and not talking.

“And what do you do?” – you asked, moving away from the topic of your work and asking as if you hadn’t been briefed on him already.

“I’m just a… I drive the bus.” – he said, releasing your hand and closing his fingers again around nothing, still feeling the ghost of your touch there.

“That’s nice. I just paint.” – you replied.

*

Doc facilitated some more conversation between you two, still too stiff and reticent. When he moved away to talk to some other customers, you sat in silence briefly before Paterson spoke.

“Funny that we never interacted much in school.” – he noted, since it turned out over the course of the evening you had plenty of friends in common and liked similar things.

“Well, you weren’t all that approachable. You seemed too cool to just…” – you trailed off and a funny sound of amusement poured out from his throat.

“That’s a first.” – he said, looking at his glass pensively.

“I mean, not that you were going around doing and saying cool things…” – you started to explain and a brief, sad grimace of realization passed over his face, followed by a subdued smile.

“Oh, okay then.” – he nodded, that sounded more like it.

“Sorry, that’s not what I mean.” – you laughed, reaching out to touch his arm in support, but stopping yourself. – “What I’m trying to say is that you seemed cool. Aloof. It’s very rare for someone to truly give off the sense that they do not care about where they are in time and space, like it’s entirely inconsequential. And as a teen, that’s the coolest thing you can do. I’ve never seen anyone do it like you.” – you admitted, hoping he wouldn’t read too much into it, see through it.

“That’s strange, I thought a very similar thing about you. You seemed like you were living in your own world and having the best time, just being with yourself. I think we all want to be able to do that. So there was a sense that to be invited into your company would be… prestigious. An accomplishment.” – he said, and you could agree with that. You built that mythos very purposely.

“Do you know how much effort went into looking effortless for me?” – you asked, laughing at your younger self. Choosing outfits so they were impeccable, but didn’t seem thought through. Having to wash your hair practically daily because you were always messing with it, tossing it around so it looked cool and wild and unkempt, while being aware of what each follicle was doing. – “I was just emulating what someone like you seemed to do naturally. It was infuriating if someone was able to be in the same place and care less than me. If for no other reason than that I was there too. Teenage self-absorption dictating that wherever I stepped foot was hallowed ground and people should care that at least I was there, even if they didn’t care for the event itself.” – you stopped and laughed at the ridiculous confession. – “I think that’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever said.”

Paterson breathed out a quiet laugh, admiring how well you knew yourself and how brave you were for being able to admit to these flaws. Words always failed him, he could never get his tongue to cooperate with his brain and heart – only his hand – so your self-deprecation was endlessly charming to him.

“Not at all, it’s honest. And very funny. It’s astute to figure out what you’re doing and why.” – he said, feeling dread creep up his spine, knowing he was quite unable to do those things himself. He observed and wrote down, but rarely considered himself, more than what a certain daily sight caused to flit through his mind.

“You’re giving me way too much credit. I just find it hilarious. As you grow up, you realize that the admirable thing is engaging with life. Doing things and being open and revealing your feelings, that’s brave, it makes life worth living. Even if it goes against every instinct I’ve cultivated, but we’ll see how I do.” – you shrugged, feeling like the conversation had gotten too deep and up its own ass way too quickly, trying to play it off.

“You seem to be doing great.” – Paterson observed, a strange sinking feeling in his heart. – “So is that what motivated you to leave Paterson? To engage with life? Were you bored here?” – he brought the conversation back to more mundane topics.

“What was the first thing you heard about me?” – you asked knowingly.

“Um… I’m not sure.” – Paterson lied.

“Go on. I’d be surprised if you didn’t know.” – you prompted.

“About… you twin?” – he asked as politely as he knew how, not wanting to offend you.

“That I ate my twin in the womb.” – you confirmed. – “Everybody knew that story. When I heard it as a kid, I had no idea what it really meant. I just thought I literally killed and ate my twin sister or brother. And I told my friends, who told their friends, who told everyone. Every person I met knew this by the time we were introduced. It was… weird. Somehow humiliating. Really personal, obviously. And infuriating. I just wanted to be more than this act of prenatal cannibalism. Though I did consider that name for my band.” – you confessed and Paterson laughed, thinking it would have been the perfect name.

“Just imagine if that were the thing people remembered you most for. Something that happened in utero, before you had any agency. Truly, if that ends up being the most I ever accomplish, then why was I alive?” – you laughed, though it was true.

“It won’t be. It already isn’t.” – he turned to look at you so you could see he was not joking at all.

You smiled and he smiled back, each looking at the other and committing the expression to memory, the moment dragging on.

“So…” – you started, needed to swallow and wet your throat. – “Speaking of accomplishments, what’s the most exciting thing you’ve done recently?” – you asked a classic ice-breaker, wanting him to speak a little before you manage to reveal every secret you’ve ever had.

Paterson thought for a moment. He didn’t think of his life in terms of accomplishments or excitement. “My bus almost exploded.” – he offered.

“What? What happened?” – your eyes widened, not expecting that answer at all.

He felt such a rush at seeing your expression change, body tense, turn a little more towards him. It was exhilarating to see you care. – “There was some electrical problem. Nothing happened in the end.”

“Oh.” – you laughed in relief and he felt greedy for some more of your concern.

“It was worrisome. Could have exploded into a fireball, is what everyone said.” - Why was he adding details? Why was he trying to impress you? It wouldn’t have exploded. That’s what he told everyone else. But now he was trying to scare you, to see your pupils shrink again, body jerk in his direction.

“Oh, no. Well, thank goodness it didn’t.” – your hand reflexively moved towards his arm again and he looked at it as you twitched back, trying to keep it place. Now that he noticed, you were too self-conscious and paranoid not to touch him casually, god forbid he figure out what his company was actually doing to you internally. – “But also…” – you mused, thumb stroking his forearm as you thought. – “That’s not exactly something you did. It more just occurred.”

“Ah. Yes. I take your point.” – he nodded, thinking of something he did. He initiated. He went after. His thoughts stretched far and wide across his memory and he couldn’t really find anything worth talking about.

Finally, he found something he hoped might amuse you. – “I forgave the dog for chewing up my… notebook.” – he said, deciding not to tell you what was inside. But why did he almost come out with it? Tell you he writes because he can’t speak. To be patient with him, he wants to talk to you now more than anything. What a strange night.

“That’s… generous.” – you said after considering, making him laugh for giving him so much credit. – “No, I mean it. To forgive someone who doesn’t even feel bad about hurting you… That takes a lot.”

“So you’re just planning on keeping how you disarmed Everett to yourself?” – Doc asked, making you both snap back a little, sit a little straighter.

“You did what?” – you bugged out your eyes at Paterson.

“It wasn’t even a real gun.” – The explosion wasn’t real, the gun wasn’t real, he was barely real. And you were so alive. Paterson’s hands were sweating.

“Did you know that at the time?”

“I did.” – Doc answered before Paterson could. – “That boy was never gonna hold a real gun. But Paterson didn’t. He’s just a plain old hero.”

You looked at him. He looked at you, waiting for a response. Something. The longer you looked at him, the more he hoped you would have something to say. Somehow it felt important to hear you say something.

“I’m glad there’s people like you out there.” – you finally managed to comment, not able to make much sense of all the thoughts and feelings you were having at the moment. His intent gaze on you was not helping. – “I…” – you started, losing your train of thought when he didn’t relent. – “…think I need to go. I don’t think… I feel too good.” – you muttered, getting up and reaching for your wallet.

Paterson got up, as if you were in danger of falling as Doc refused to accept your money and said he was treating his new favorite painter. You decided to come back and treat everyone the next time you were there.

Paterson was standing next to you, looking alert and concerned, wondering if you were really feeling ill or just trying to get away from him. Either way, his hands were up, hovering close to your elbow to catch you if need be. You assured him you were good to walk home as he followed you out, and you had to fight with your legs not to take off running.

“Really, I’m sure. You’re… very kind to… want to help.” – you were trying to find the words that made his gesture as neutral as possible, to remind yourself he would do this for anyone.

He stopped, sighing. He would rather put you in a cab or walk you back himself, but that would be… too much. After wishing you a goodnight, he leaned forward, not sure if you would shake his hand or hug him… A kiss seemed like a lot to expect. You spread your arms slightly, but he started to extend a hand, so you immediately stopped and stuck yours out as fast as you could, missing his, which was now in the air, heading towards you back. In the end, you shared an awkward hug, his arms lightly hugging you, the hand you extended to shake his on his chest somehow, the other on his back, tapping him, like a fucking dog. You rolled your eyes at yourself as you registered the crisp smell of a clean shirt and how your heart was beating in your ears, blood pounding against the eardrum almost painfully.

“It was good seeing you, Paterson.” – you waved as you tried to walk steadily, but still sell that you weren’t feeling all that great.

“You too.” – Paterson waved back, watching you walk, then looking at the sidewalk, then back to you until you disappeared around the corner, never turning around. Not that he expected you to.

You did not get him at all, he thought. He tried to tell himself. Asking about exciting things in his life. Laura never did that. Laura understood him really well.

Why would that thought come into his mind? You two had nothing to do with each other.

He went back inside, replaying your conversation in his head and trying to find what was wrong with it, why it made him feel this unsettled.

*


	3. I like to think about other girls sometimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Musings (sort of) from Paterson’s point of view, might be weird? I don’t know; allusions to masturbation, treading around emotional affair territory

*

He hadn’t thought about it in so long.

But you were the first, he cringed from head to toe remembering, like he was wronging you somehow; then, for doing it, and now, for reigniting the memory.

The subsequent fantasies were fine. They got the job done. Made him sweat, white out occasionally, shudder or frown to remember. But the first is always different.

Funny; at first, he never used to fantasize about anything. He would just do what was necessary mechanically to achieve the feeling and result he wanted. And then one day, seemingly out of the blue, he got the idea – felt like a scientist that had just discovered a way to heighten the already indescribable pleasure – it was only comparable to realizing you could switch from stroking yourself and your little penis with two fingers to using your whole hand now that it was full size. He thought he was a genius, in both instances – sure that he was the only one to think of either. Everyone thinks they’re the first to figure this out and then later they realize it’s so obvious.

So when it clicked for him he could think of another person, a girl, doing things to him - any girl in the world! – this was a revelation. Of course, he picked the most aloof, unattainable one he could think of – knowing instinctively that there was something resplendent about taming the shrew, even if for just a few minutes, if he could hold out that long.

He felt incredible, his inner world and perception of self expanding endlessly, like reflections in a mirror stretching on forever, but he couldn’t look at you in the eyes anymore.

*

You entered his bus early in the afternoon. On the phone, you froze for a moment in recognition, stuck out two fingers in greeting, the other three holding the phone to your ear and gave him a smile.

“Hm? Sorry, could you say that again?” – you stammered, moving out of the other commuters’ way and continuing your conversation. Paterson felt a meadow of flowers violently bloom in his chest, irrationally fearing that he would emanate their scent and shoot rays on sunlight out of every orifice, and bowed his head to stifle the feeling.

You hung up and immediately called someone else, standing and craning your neck around, trying not to miss your stop.

After a few minutes, still on the phone, you glanced forward and caught his eyes in the rearview mirror, on you. He looked away, feeling a bolt of panic shoot down his spine. When he looked up again, you were looking softly into the mirror still, eyes hazy. He dared to look longer that time, waves of hot blood scorching him from deep in his chest to the top of his head.

 _Will you be at the bar?_ , you mouthed, cradling the phone into your neck as someone spoke to you on the other end.

He leaned in to nod, like you were making a secret pact and looked at your two fingers waving goodbye to him again. He thought about it all day afterwards.

Three fingers in your life. Two breaking the rules, reaching out for him.

*

After work, his feet walked by themselves and before he knew it, he was at the store, buying a phone.

At the bar, he let you put your number in there. He wasn’t sure if Doc heard when you asked why there weren’t any numbers in it – and whether it was brand new, peeling off some thin sheet of plastic. He said he had to buy a new one, implying a non-existent old one broke. Maybe he really didn’t know he never had a phone. Maybe he sensed Pat was wrestling with himself. Or maybe he stood back and let his patrons do whatever they wanted, regardless of morality.

He thirsted for more conversation. The unusual things you say.

He got a few. Wrapped them in kraft paper, like little presents, and locked them away in tiny cupboards in his mind.

You bought his drinks. You bought everyone’s drinks.

He wondered if you were really there, too afraid to reach out and touch you. It seemed uncanny somehow.

Some days just didn’t feel real, did they?

He’s wake up, find himself at work, consciousness coming to him in brief flashes only hours after he woke up. Everything was always the same. Laura asleep. Hug her. Breakfast. Walk. Depot. Turn. Stop. Go.

Sometimes it was a voice. Other times colors he hadn’t seen enough times already that they blended into his predictable monotony. Slapping him. Jarring him for just a moment. And he knew something was real.

You played chess with Doc, saying you were bad. Doc said you were great. He was asked to make the judgment.

“What’s more likely, that I’m just a genius or Doc is a very polite gentleman?” – you joked, smiling at Doc.

“They both seem true to me.” – he heard the terror in his voice, the confession. You sighed and he felt the sigh in his own chest.

You told Doc you couldn’t continue the game tomorrow. You were babysitting Nina’s kid. A little gift so she and her husband could go out. Then you’d be gone, back to the city. Doc promised to save your board and pick the game back up when you return.

*

He walked back with Marvin, lost in thought, knowing his feet could follow the grooves he had dug into the sidewalk walking to and fro every night.

Laura never buys him anything.

It doesn’t bother him. Really, it doesn’t.

She doesn’t need to. She thinks she does, though. It’s sweet.

She’ll take the money from her bake sale, take him out, and then he’ll pay for the new batch she makes the next time.

She’s wonderful. She doesn’t need to be an accountant.

*

Life seemed to be tumbling, tripping and hurtling forward, out of nowhere, in the last few days.

He received your address via text message and he reread it dozens of times. He felt a physical itch in his fingers, wanting to send more messages. It was clear to him less than a day how these things could be addictive.

In your childhood room-and-studio, you had a blanket and slippers ready.

“I’m not here for a long time, just a cozy time.” – you announced, throwing your own blanket around your shoulders and digging around until you freed your hands. – “This is a maximum comfort zone.”

He did the same, sitting on the couch and watching a movie you picked out. It didn’t need to be anything specifically for kids, she was still too young to know. You insisted he unbutton his pants and slouch further down the couch. To trust you, the comfort of pants-undone-so-low-on-the-couch-you’re-basically-on-the-ground was unbeatable.

You were right.

When you got up, the baby fussing, to rock her back and forth, you snorted as your unbuttoned pants started slipping. You leaned back, holding the baby with one arm to catch them and he shot up, running to hold the little one as you adjusted. All the commotion made the baby more upset, this soft, fragrant, helpless little thing, so lovable, squirming around in his arms, asking with every molecule in its tiny body to be taken care of.

Another moment that felt unreal.

He cooed and soothed the child with sounds and movements he couldn’t place or recognize, something awakening somewhere he never explored much.

A strange urge to kiss the round little head with barely any hair and let her sleep on his chest, feel her relax and be comforted appeared, and he felt close to tears, some unknown emotion taking hold.

You were going to take her right off his hands, but you let him have the moment as it was evident something was happening. - “Hey, you’re good with her.” - you encouraged, seeing the bewilderment in him.

“She’s amazing.” – he replied quietly, thinking of the entirety of life ahead of this little bundle.

“Just wait till you have one of your own.” – you smiled, going back to the couch now that he had the baby taken care of.

“Oh, no…” – he dismissed the idea as ridiculous. Impossible. Laura is basically a child herself.

“No? Never?” – you asked, sounding amused.

“You?” – he asked back, afraid of answering right away.

“There’s no one in my life to have them with.” – the answer came earnestly, no embarrassment or self-pity in it.

He opened his mouth to explain himself, thoughts racing as he did.

He realized he thought of Laura as a child; he takes the dog out, puts the mailbox back every day as she is so wrapped up in her world that she doesn’t seem aware or capable of taking care of even the small things. She relies on him for everything – he’d be worried how that might reflect on a child.

He never had these thoughts formally before, but they came to him complete and forceful, so he must have been thinking about it for a while behind his own back.

There was a time children were brought up, when she was busy painting one room.

She spoke of a daughter, how cute she would be, have his freckles and her hair, and she would paint her crib and make her clothes, the baby would look like her and she’d sing to her. There didn’t seem to be anything in those considerations about the kid, except a reminder he’s have to take care of her on Saturdays while Laura bakes and goes to market.

With a brick in his gut, he finally spoke. – “She’s not the… type.”

“Oh, cool.” – your support for her choice came quick. – “More of a career girl.” – you nodded knowingly.

Paterson knew he was insular, and rarely let anyone in. But just a few innocent questions made him tremble and feel like collapsing on the inside. – “She’s an… artist.” – he added, unprompted.

“Really? What medium?” – you tilted your head to side, ready to welcome a kindred spirit into the fold.

How does he put it? She paints. Bakes, but is that a skill? It’s more than he can do, certainly. She’s decided she’s a musician now. – “It’s several different… She paints a lot of…stuff around our house.” – he sounded unconvinced even to himself, though he knew he was proud of her - he was, but he just didn’t have the right words to talk about it when you do these things professionally.

You nodded, looking away, as if gathering some words scattered around the room. – “So she’s still finding herself, her voice. That’s important.”

He jumped at the chance to agree, feeling exposed and nervous. – “They say you don’t want to turn your hobbies into your job.” – he comforted himself too, keeping all his words, all his thoughts, locked away in notebooks and now, not even there; at most a smidge of ink between his wife’s dog’s teeth. – “That you lose that play aspect of it?” – it came out as a questions to himself, to you.

“I heard that too – as people tried to dissuade me from painting.” – you mused. – “But I haven’t found that to be the case. You’re not just playing, whirling madly like a dervish; it unlocks other aspects of life, problem solving, trying, failing, succeeding, responsibility, accountability… You take care yourself and others, and the hard times enrich you. I’d feel inconsolable, like I’m missing out if I weren’t achieving goals I set out.” – you got lost in your assessment and returned to the present moment to find him looking at the pictures and posters on the wall in front of him. Not to come off as a stuck up artist, you related what those images meant to you.

“See, that’s Caroline Weldon and one of the portraits of Sitting Bull that she painted. She left her old life, and her husband, incidentally, to go support indigenous communities and became friends with the Chief. They had a fascinating story. She was braver than most women I can think of today, putting on little puppet plays with their performative activism and liberation.”

“And this?” – Paterson asked, feeling small and anything other than brave, afraid what each coming moment might bring.

“That’s a poster for Basket Case.” – you chuckled and he wondered out loud how anyone could make a movie around a simple visual pun. – “Oh, well, you see, they can’t.” – you laughed and he turned to watch you, follow the movement of your lips, the dance of your hands as you explained. – “I can’t recommend it as a great viewing experience, but the story of how they made it is fascinating. No budget and basically no actors, they would save to buy enough film for a single take and then go out in the streets, with no permits, and just shoot. And it took years. But no one would give up. They just… wanted to do it.”

“You’re very…” – he didn’t realize he was speaking out loud until your eyes lost that faraway look and locked with his. Brave. Tenacious. Intoxicating. – “I’ve never… known anyone like you.”

You bit your lips into a line and your chin seemed to quiver for a second, sending a aching pang through his chest. He knew a look of pain when he saw one.

You phone rang – Nina calling to say she was on her way to pick up her kid – and cravenly, Paterson retreated, saying he needed to go, wanting to disappear before anyone other than Marvin found out he had been at your house, talking and sharing and falling to pieces, seeing confusion in your eyes and those same two fingers waving him goodbye.

*


	4. Whirling Dervish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Oof, this kind of gave me anxiety to write. Anxiety/panic attack, nightmares, general David Lynchiness, emotional affair, angst

*

You left after a few days in Paterson and it felt you took all the light with you.

He wouldn’t describe it as sadness, really. Or even an ache. The world was all the same, just turned down. Grayer. Left an ashy taste in his mouth.

He sat in his little room, among the pipes and books and tried to grasp at all the threads unraveling, pull them into a tapestry that made sense.

He had just taught himself to accept the monotony of an unremarkable life. Color it with bursts of poetry, in private, safe. Give himself to a wonderful woman who, against all odds, wanted him, make it his mission to be what she needed, to give back. He had almost swum out from the dark waters, left them behind and made his home around the surface, forgetting himself, detaching from old emotions that tore him to shreds and he swears he could have lived out the rest of his life carried by the waves, not struggling.

And one question from you detonated the peace around him.

_If you don’t change and grow and do things, why are you alive?_

Entropy.

It swallows you, Paterson knew. But people rarely tell you there is a comfort in being devoured when the world feels foreign and unattainable and not of you. Surrendering and gently burning down, lower and lower, diminishing, has a strange comfort in it.

He thought he had grown up. Accepted no one was perfect. Accepted he was dulled to the point of never being stirred again, isolated and safe. And you now defied everything his world was built on, torturing him with being all he’s ever wanted and all he continued to want, even when desire felt like a distant memory.

*

He saw you on Doc’s wall every night. Eyes peering at him from between the lines and curves of your signature. He spoke even less than before, looking at you from across the bar, then going home.

He had a nightmare about his time in the military. He hadn’t dreamt of it in so long.

It was in broad daylight. He was surrounded by friends and enemies, hearing a cacophony of noise he couldn’t parse through, but one that scared him to his bones. It was the sound of something coming for him and he felt in his gut, in his heart, he was never coming home. There was nothing ahead of him, he could have sworn. Time was cut, he was already gone, it was just a matter of events catching up to what he knew. He no longer existed.

He woke up, drenched, and you already had your arms around his shoulders, pulling his head onto your chest. You told him stories, voice low, notes grumbling deep in your chest under his cheek and ear, fingers soothing against his scalp, lips kissing into his hair. His numb body tingled as it started coming back to life. He wanted to cry and scream, for the first time in so long.

He remembered it wasn’t real, though he could feel every touch, hear every word, and he pushed frantically off the mattress, startling himself awake, finding his body soaked and exhausted.

Laura stirred, expecting the same affections as every morning, but he ran for the bathroom, his very bones feeling unsteady and about to collapse into a heap.

*

The next nightmare came soon.

He sat somewhere out of space and time, in humming darkness, so deep and thick, he felt it sticking to his skin. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but he was so far away from everything corporal, material.

Colors drained from the world and monochrome circles, lines, dots crawled up his body, dissolving flesh and bone in the process and the ashes scattered to the winds, disappearing into the void.

The dull hum followed him after the dream, constantly droning on around him. The sight of his home, his kitchen, as he ate his breakfast from a black and white bowl, sitting opposite black and white curtains, surrounded by black and white counters made him feel dizzy and he broke his routine again, leaving for work as soon as he could manage, reflexively feeling at his muscles, bones, throughout the day, afraid that every time his mind wandered, he might dissolve.

*

The night after that, he dreamt of a long hallway he was trudging through, until he saw two figures in the distance holding hands.

The same dread as when he first saw the twins in the Shining gripped him, wanting to stop and turn back, but unable to command his feet that kept walking closer.

You and Laura stood holding hands, looking almost identical, faces blank, her dress full of black and white shapes, yours a galaxy of colors.

A door appeared and he ran in before he could walk into you two, finding Marvin, huge and feral tearing his notebook to pieces. He wanted to yell out or save it somehow, but he was so small and had no voice.

He crept along the wall to another door where Laura painted, barely noticing him enter. The fourth wall of it was missing and she was quickly running out of room to paint, so be busied himself knocking together more walls over a precipice on the edge of the world.

The more he built, the faster she worked and he was running out of time, supplies, filling with dread as to what would happen when he finally stopped or fell over the edge. A door appeared before him and he stepped inside, just before he was drowned by a sticky black and white deluge.

He climbed vertically through the door, closing it like a hatch on an attic and locking it tight.

When he breathed again and looked around, he was in your studio. Slippers and blanket waiting. A cat rubbing up against his calves, standing on hind legs to cuddle against him more.

In a corner, you were facing away, rocking. His heart constricted for a moment, afraid you’d turn around with some monstrous visage, banish him from this soft, cozy space or do something else to overwhelm him.

You turned, quite unaware of his presence, holding a child with a face he couldn’t see. You aligned the seams of its little overalls so they were in the right place, moving out of the way to reveal a portrait.

He couldn’t quite see it, couldn’t remember the details when he woke, but he knew it was a portrait of you.

*

The next day, his anxieties couldn’t wait until he was asleep.

He was in his little room, blank page in front of him, pen hot in his hand from holding it and twirling it between his fingers for a long time.

A familiar discomfort crept up over his skin, sinking inside and he wanted to bolt out of his chair, but it was too late.

His heart wanted to beat fast, like a startled animal, but it was too constricted.

Chills and hot flashes spilled over him in waves, like street lamps sending stripes of light yellow light and darkness in turn as you sped through the night.

He felt that same familiar fear of dying, so sharp and clear, while the rest of the world blurred and hummed, slow at first, then more intense, like a kettle whistling and wailing.

Worse perhaps than the fear of death, fear of losing control. Or going crazy. Fear of this merciless clarity, trapping him potentially forever in that disorienting moment before falling apart, desperate and unspeakably weak, and paralyzed. 

When everything is the same, it’s like time doesn’t pass at all. He wakes up at the same time, has the same breakfast, follows his feet down the same route, uses the same pen to write, has the same beer at the bar. Every day is the same and it doesn’t scare him. Everything is fine. Everything is still.

But when Laura scribbles all over the place, he feels like she’ll scribble over him one day. He’ll just disappear, hide himself so well even from himself that he won’t know where to look anymore. The house is stacked with scribbled cupcakes. His poems are gone. His bus could have exploded. A Japanese poet came all the way across the world to Paterson and he was gone already and living a life in which things happened. You returned. Paterson tried to stay still. Not let it happen.

He thinks about his youth, his hands on himself, on you. Nothing is the same and time is passing and life is fleeting and he could have lost it this week and what if he already did lose it behind his own back and now he can’t breathe again.

Tremors all over his body, every muscle shaking, lungs empty and frozen in a painful spasm no matter how much he inhales. He feels a cold sweat. He would cry, but the terror that his body is not his own, his mind is unraveling, life is slipping through his fingers, it’s too big, it swallows him up and he’s afraid to close his eyes and sink into the darkness. He knows somehow he wouldn’t return. Not this time.

He couldn’t tell how much time has passed. There was a definite peak in there somewhere, where nothing made sense, but all he was sure of was that he was lost. And slowly, slower than anything in his life so far, his soul seemed to return to his body. He wasn’t visibly shaking. His lungs started to work. He was soaked and scared and weaker than ever – even than the time when he was a kid and they couldn’t lower his temperature for days and he was delirious. It took so long to climb up the stairs, he still couldn’t feel where his feet and hands were going. He sat unblinking, clutching a pillow with big tears streaming down his face, going down the same wet path again and again, digging gentle grooves into his face until they eventually stopped. And he had a glass of water.

*

Something happened, in dreams and in wakeful hours. There were no more degrees of separation.

Everything reminded him of you. Colors of leaves were your paintings. A woman with similar hair made him want to reach out and touch it, mourning that he hadn’t done it before. Flowers made him want to buy them for you, every single kind, and learn from your reaction which was your favorite. Even the air he breathed reminded him of your sigh he felt in his chest.

*

He half hoped you’d tell him to go to hell. But that was just more lying to himself, he hoped much more dearly you would tell him something else. Anything else.

He texted asking if he could commission you to paint a self-portrait.

You were surprised, but open to the idea, informing him you were traveling to Japan for another exhibition and you’d be able to meet and discuss it more in person when you returned.

An image came after the text as he was still trying to wipe his clammy palms, hiding the screen from the empty bus, fingers too shaky and clumsy to respond fast.

There were a bunch of your paintings, ready to be transported, with a cat sniffing around. He nearly dropped the phone when he recognized it as the thing that he felt cuddle up against him in his dream, so loving and familiar.

Just a few days ago, he was going through life like he had put a blanket over his cage, never taking part in the world, always standing right next to it, looking in occasionally, briefly. But now he was violently plugged into it, felt it all coursing through him, wondering if he was losing his mind or if this is what it felt like to be a real person finally.

*

He was still reeling when he reached his home, for once not bothering to fix the mailbox.

Laura was waiting for him, letter in hand. Paterson only then remembered they had a few documents that needed renewing and they had both started filing the paperwork before his whole world started crumbling around him.

 _Something, something… primary documents not properly certified by Notary and Apostille for international use… something, something_. It definitely didn’t look good.

A few phone calls determined that, in fact, their marriage license and certificate of marriage were now rendered null and void because Laura’s original documents were not properly notarized and filed.

*


	5. That is what you gave me, I become the cigarette and you the match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have some notes for an epilogue with some stuff I couldn't naturally get to in this chapter, so I might post that later, but for now, this is the little conclusion to this story.  
> It was a little different to write for Pat, from his point of view kind of, but I'm very grateful to everyone who gave the story a chance <3

*

After that initial discovery, Paterson went to the bar, talked to Doc about these bizarre occurrences.

And then he stopped going. He also stopped walking Marvin for a few days as he reeled, locking himself in his room at night to write or read, but he mostly just sat there, thinking.

*

He would never have divorced her. No matter what happened, no matter how he felt.

It was such a big thing, so hurtful, and he would never disrupt either of their lives like that.

And he was too easy to live with for Laura to ever leave him. So he was doing his best to resign himself to starting the painful process of forgetting you and mourning you despite never having you all over again.

But then this fell into his lap, the discovery that he wasn’t even really married, and the ability to do so shattered.

Where once he was able to dull himself and let the shallows bob his body around any which way, he now felt a pull and a primeval instinct to swim, hack, dig and run towards it.

You could always get people to listen, now to watch when you’re not talking, even if you didn’t notice just how much they did. He never thought anyone would listen, never could use his words out loud like you, never had the right ones. Most of all, he could never quite engage with what it would be like to be you, be around you, have your attention, even when he burned for it.

He searched for a lot of the answers in poetry. Others’ words, his.

He shied away from the question, even in his own mind, ever since you stormed into his life again.

Why does he love her? And, more to the point, does he at all?

He couldn’t say how he feels, couldn’t say what it is or where it comes from; it’s a habit, something he’s accepted.

She loved him, in the way she knew how, when he didn’t know who he was, where he was; she grounded him, but in a place he felt no connection to.

And the place, the home, became all her, now maddening and suffocating.

Now that he feels things, he wants to tell them, wants to feel someone else’s skin on his and fill himself with life. It’s scary to think about, selfish to act on.

So many wise men and poets say there shouldn’t be a why.

But then why is there a why with you? Why are there dozens, millions? Why is every thought another why?

He loves you because it’s easy, because he can’t help it, can’t stop it; he admires you, he shirks in fear of his own desire and the intensity of feeling things in the body he’s buried so long ago. And that’s all he’s ever wanted. Everything is so sedate and a low hum of possibility or danger or collapse is always filling his head and now he feels it all starkly and uncontrollably. The hum hasn’t stopped in days and Paterson knows it won’t until he resolves his situation.

Most of all he’s grateful for a real chance at life. For the clarity he bought with his delirious suffering in the last few days.

The feeling that you broke through was that feeling when he thought he would die, that he was effectively already dead. He was living on borrowed time, never thinking ahead, sure that every day was his last, without plans or ambitions and a certainty he would leave no mark on the world, no poems, no children, no stories about that bus driver poet.

Somehow you dispelled that fear and something was finally more powerful than the idea of death.

_Life with your for any amount of time._

*

He let the phone battery die, didn’t recharge it.

He let Laura get to work painting a wedding dress.

He went to see a doctor about the humming, that was steadily turning into incessant ringing in his ears and was told there seems to be no physical reason for it.

It was suggested to him to take some sick days.

Laura insisted they push back the wedding until he feels _like himself again._

*

W _hen you feel something - it’s a lot out of the blue sometimes –_

 _-_ always? _–_

_but it’s a sin and a scourge to turn away from_

Paterson put the pen down, closed that pretty notebook he got from his Japanese friend and went to take Marvin out for a walk, more than a week since he last did.

*

He went down a route he didn’t often take, ending up in front of an art supplies store. Marvin was breathing rather hard, so he gave him a moment to relax and himself indulged in soaking up the beauty, the potential, pristine canvases, clean brushes, pots and tubes and colors and so many things he couldn’t even name. Before his mind could wander to you, he materialized you in front of him, walking down the street in his direction. He stood and watched as you took a few steps, wondering if you’ll evaporate or if you were really there.

You walked slowly, with your head cocked to the side, looking at him like he owed you something, some sort of explanation. He watched that look, wanting to owe you everything, give it all back with interest. – “Did I really need to go to Japan and meet a stranger who told me more about you than you did?”

“What?” – Paterson asked, looking at your lips, but not hearing much, that infernal ringing… Stopped? Hm, he couldn’t blame it on that. He was just too busy watching to listen.

You explained how a man came to your exhibition, curious about this painter from Paterson since he had just been there recently, too much of a coincidence to miss. He then told you about his favorite poets, what he did in Paterson and how he met a kind bus driver who wouldn’t admit to writing poetry.

“I wasn’t sure whether to tell him I… knew you.” – Paterson was sure you were going to say something else before you switched it to _knew_. Now that he for once wanted to know the exact words on someone’s mind, he understood everyone’s frustration with his sparing use of language.

“Am I jealous? Or offended?” – you mused. - “I’m something. Definitely something.”

“You are…” – Paterson breathed and felt trapped when your eyes locked with his and seemed to read something in his face, tone of voice.

Marvin grunted in his unsatisfied way and you, mercifully, let him off the hook, crouching down to pet the beast.

He clearly didn’t like you, looking at you like a pest and moving away when you tried to pet him.

“He’s cute.” – you said a bit too flatly to sound genuine, but Paterson didn’t need anybody to like Marvin. It was just Laura’s dog and another obligation to him.

“No, he’s not.” – he retorted without malice. – “I don’t like him.”

“So you haven’t fully forgiven him for his trespasses?” – you joked, getting back up.

“Maybe not, I don’t… I guess not.” – he hadn’t had much time to think about it lately, but you were right. And it flustered him that you remembered what he said at the bar. - “What are you doing here?” – he asked with two creases between his drawn eyebrows, angrier, more panicked than he intended, catching him red-handed, in the middle of his feelings and demanding with your mere presence that he do something.

“I’m… visiting home. My parents were cat sitting for me. Is that… allowed?” – you joked, surprised by this stronger emotion – any emotion – coming from Paterson.

“Did you know I’m getting remarried?” – he asked more to the point, ignoring your rhetorical question.

“I…just… congratulations?” – you offered, caught off guard by that direct line of questioning. You were just here to buy some damn varnish.

“I’m asking do you know? _Did_ you know? Before just now?” – he asked, coming a step closer, as if you owed him some sort of explanation. As if he hadn’t been ignoring your messages for days.

“I think…Doc mentioned…” – you _knew_ , and Doc _told_ you as soon as you came in to resume your game of chess. Made it a point to tell you. – “Something happened…and you had to redo it…”

“Is that why you’re in town?” – Paterson asked, feeling short of breath from the panic that gripped him. To assume, to suggest something like that was…so unlike him.

“Why would I be? Did my invitation get lost in the mail?” – you asked, growing unnerved and a little angered by these questions. You were just minding your business, receiving his message loud and clear when he stopped responding and you just wanted to peacefully hightail it out of Paterson and go back to the city where you could talk your exorbitantly expensive therapist’s ear off about this bizarre and surprisingly heartbreaking episode back home.

“No. There is no wedding.” – he admitted, deflating as his negative emotions dissipated, giving way to an important realization. – “You understand, then…” – he started, tying Marvin’s leash around a pole, though he was far too lazy to run anywhere. –“I’m not married. I am not a married man. Technically.” – he said, tilting his head at you like you did at him at the start of the conversation. Like you owed him something.

“Must be a…shock to you.”

He definitely leaned in first. You think. Even if he didn’t, which he did, he hadn’t stopped looking at your lips the entire time. You grabbed at his collar, pulling him closer, holding so tight your fingers hurt. His arms so tight around you you felt your ribs pushing into his, squeezing impossibly closer as your breath was spent.

Feeling lightheaded, your hold on his jacket slacked and he released you, letting you stand on your two feet again, gasping for breath and seeing black dots all around, your thirst for him not even a little quenched even though you nearly passed out kissing him. With two hands locking behind your neck and pulling you into his chest, he helped you find your balance again.

You rested and held him until you missed him too much, needing his skin on yours somehow, hands traveling from his sides up across his chest and around his neck, bringing his forehead to rest against yours.

“Will you wait for me? I just need one day.” – Paterson asked after a long silence, sharing breath, and warmth, and closeness.

“What’s a day after a lifetime?” – you replied, arms wrapping all the way around his neck and sharing one last kiss before you separated. He watched you peruse some supplies through the window before you disappeared behind it and slowly walked home.

*

He explained as best as he could to Laura.

It wasn’t not about cheating, looking for a better catch; he’d never go out of his way to do that.

You just recognized each other, but were too young and stupid and didn’t do it when it was time.

You’ve tried different lives, different people, different personas on for size and it never fit.

And time didn’t heal all wounds, it only made it worse.

And she could have the house, he wouldn’t dream of asking her to leave.

He wasn’t sure that she really believed him when he said he was serious. Or when he packed his suitcase.

In the morning, before he went to work, she asked if he wanted to take Marvin with him since he takes care of him and he likes walking him so much.

No, he responded, keeping to himself that he doesn’t like him. Nor does Marvin like him back. Or you.

*

On his way back from work, he was floating on air, not quite believing he would just simply get to be with you now.

You sat on the chair closest to the hallway so you could hear him at the door. He put his suitcase down quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace in your parents’ home and you wrapped your arms around him. So close, so easy. After a brief introduction, he sat on your bed, with you in his lap, lips on your neck, your softness melding into him.

With lips numb from kissing every patch of skin he could reach, he ate dinner and spent the rest of the evening stretched out on your bed, your cat kneading and occasionally digging its claws into his stomach, before it fell asleep there, purring, listening to you tell him about your trip, about the cat, about your new pieces.

That night he jerked awake after dreaming of Laura in a black and white wedding dress killing him.

He chuckled at the dream and softly got out of your bed, curious to see one of the pieces you told him you’d started on.

On tiptoes, he crept into your studio, finding a canvas in the easel and a table full of notes and references.

_In his quest to right the wrongdoing, Hamlet delays acting toward justice for many reasons. The main factor for Hamlet’s hesitation is attributed to his self-discipline. He lacks of ability to act on his emotions. Hamlet is an intelligent, moral, and reserved character. He restrains himself to act rationally and not on emotion. This hesitation is a tragic flaw for Hamlet, but in order to resolve the truth, it is necessary._

Prints of other famous representations of the Prince of Denmark, his eyes circled, always tortured, looking off somewhere.

_That we would do,_

_We should do when we would, for this “would” changes_

_And hath abatements and delays as many_

_As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents._

_And then this “should” is like a spendthrift sigh_

_That hurts by easing_

He found you rubbing your eyes, leaning up on one elbow when he crept back in the bedroom.

“Where did you sneak off to?” – you asked, smiling sleepily.

“To be with your thoughts for a while.” – he said, sliding under the covers and kissing any other question away before it could form on your lips.

*

The next morning, before he could wake up and reach over for his watch, he felt your arms snaking around him, lips kissing up his shoulder and neck as you straddled him, waking up with a jolt of self-consciousness about the firmness you were definitely feeling under you, judging by your chuckle as you kissed his forehead.

“Get up, grab a shower and come have breakfast.” – you told him before getting up and starting the day, feeding the cat and laying out his jacket and shoes for him.

He came to the table to find breakfast spread, his charged phone waiting too.

Leaving, he kissed your diligent hands and thought of them all day until he returned back to you, a smile never off his lips.

*

In bed, in silence, he draped you over his lap, lulling softly, learning the silent language of your body, the motions, curves, the sighs, shudders, until he nuzzled against your ear, feeling you out, investigating.

“What are you thinking about?” – you whispered, sensing he was trying to figure something out.

“Good question.” – you felt him smile before his lips continued their work.

“Yeah, our kind is always trying to puzzle something out…”

“I was thinking about you. See, my new favorite place to kiss you today is here, right outside the ear.” – he informed you, kissing right at the spot where your jaw ended and ear began, tickling slightly.

“Uh huh?”

“Uh huh, it’s such a beautiful little spot. I don’t feel like I kissed you enough there.” – he chastised himself although he only had less than a day to kiss you anywhere.

“Terribly neglectful.” – you joked, closing your eyes and letting him tickle his nose with the wisps of hair there before laying down more kisses.

“I know. And today I’ll neglect somewhere else and start over tomorrow, with a new favorite place.” – he informed you, finger tracing across different parts of your body, deliberating.

With a little shudder, you pulled back to look at him, smoothing his hair into place after this long session of cuddling. – “Speaking of places, where do you want to live? I can paint anywhere.” – you told him, not wanting him to feel uncomfortable staying with your parents and letting him know he was welcome at your place in the city.

“I can drive a bus anywhere.” – he shrugged playfully, happy to be anywhere as long as it was with you.

“What will we do, then, with all this freedom?”

“Fill out canvases. Pages. Passports. A lifetime.”

*


End file.
